


Want Some, Get Some

by airspaniel



Category: Wanted (2008)
Genre: Assassins, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fingerfucking, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He’s never really touched her before.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Want Some, Get Some

**Author's Note:**

> I'm... not sure where this came from, but I'm not complaining. Comments/crit always welcome.

He’s never really touched her before.

Oh, they’ve touched. Usually in the form of her fist meeting his face, repeatedly. Her hand on his arm, yanking him off-balance, shoving him out of the way as the bullets fly. On the back of his neck, shoving his face down before he gets killed.

And yeah, all right, there was that time in the car, his hand on her leg, but seriously, she was hanging out the windshield, sprawled on her back with two guns in her hands. What the fuck was he supposed to do? He was just looking out for her. For himself. Later he would kick himself for not remembering enough to enjoy it. He was staring straight up her skirt for like, ten minutes, and he can’t recall a damn thing. A tragedy, that’s what it is.

But now, now he feels like they’ve bonded; like he’s finally something other than a complete fucking disappointment, and maybe the look in her eyes isn’t quite pride, but at least it isn’t pity. Not anymore.

Fox leans into him, a second of shoulder-to-shoulder contact. _You ready for this?_

Wesley does his best to project confidence, because fuck yeah, he can do this now; and they’re off.

His breath is loud in his ears, pulse pounding hard like the slap of his boots against steel, against the top of the rail cars, and if he’s going to take her, it’s going to be at the bridge.

She goes down, always goes down, and he doesn’t even watch as she twists; as she arches and lies flat with her legs splayed, supplication enough to slip under the concrete and stone. He takes the high road, doesn’t let the guardrails slow him down as he breaks through; doesn’t flinch at the surprise shudder of traffic slamming to a halt; doesn’t hesitate to jump at the second set of railings.

He pivots in the air, slams down with one foot right between her legs, and Fox gives him a look that’s almost appreciative. He’s tempted to smile at the novelty, but there’s no time. He’s got a fucking goal, here.

His lead doesn’t last for long before Fox trips him, and he barely gets his hands under himself before he eats metal. She lunges over him and there, he wraps his hand around her calf and _pulls_ , and she goes down.

Maybe they have touched before, but this is the first time Wesley has the advantage.

He climbs her like a ladder, hand over hand up her knee, her thigh, her waist, leather blood-hot against her skin, until Fox twists under him again and tugs him down. Neither one of them can stay on their feet, but the flag is _right there_ , and if Wesley can just stretch a little farther, just push her a little harder, he’ll have it in his hand.

Fox isn’t making it easy, tangling herself up with him in a way that might be intimate, if they weren’t on top of the Green Line where anyone could fucking see them. But Wesley is determined, in a way he’s rarely been (has _never_ been, before she picked him up in a drugstore a few weeks ago; never even thought he could be), and he’s not going to give this up without a fight.

He pulls himself forward, reaching for it, a stupid little scrap of striped plastic that symbolizes his life, his choices, his entire miserable fucking _existence_ , and he is taking it _back_ , goddamnit, it is going to be his. Then Fox laughs, presses her forehead against his temple, a soft brush of air over his face, even against the wind beating on them. It catches him off-guard, and he’s grinning before he knows it, laughing along with her, her weight heavy and reassuring on top of him, and everything is so fucking ridiculous he can’t even take it. He still has one hand stretched out, reaching for the flag that’s only inches from them now, but his other one is wrapped around her waist, sliding up her back, and she’s _letting him_ , what the fuck, arching to get _closer_ , and she’s still smiling. Smiling, _at him_.

Her hand darts out like a snake striking, the tattered little plastic flag flapping against her fingers as she waves it in his face. “I win,” she says, so close to his ear that he can actually hear it over the roar of the train, the rush of the wind. And Wesley sees it, right there, his life in her hands. She stands up, looking as poised and unruffled as she did that first day at the prescription counter, and she lets go, the flag flying free, catching briefly on the rough brick corner of a building, tearing, ripping out of shape before blowing away. Out of sight, out of mind, out of control.

“Next time,” Wesley says, with a confidence he doesn’t feel. She doesn’t offer a hand to help him up. He wouldn’t take it if she did.

\-----

They take the same ride later, and Wesley kills a man in cold blood for the first time, standing on top of the train.

This time, when Fox smiles at him, she’s definitely proud. Wesley doesn’t know what the fuck he is.

He’s surprisingly all right with this.

\-----

Of course he wants to fuck her. He’s not dead. He is haunted by the flickering image of her ass, five frames at most, a fraction of a second, glistening wet; tattoos trailing down her back, up her shoulders like a fucking map he wants to follow with his fingertips, with his tongue…

He’s not dead, and he’d really like to stay that way, so he doesn’t even try.

\-----

Three seconds is a lifetime. Three seconds is fucking _eternity_ with Fox’s lips against his, and Wesley is so goddamned stunned that he just stands there, Cathy’s nasal bitching fading to white noise in his ears. Fox is smiling, he can feel it, fuck, he can _feel_ it; her mouth a small, satisfied curl. She draws back, just a little, and yeah, fuck _yeah_ , he’s got his father’s gun in his hand, Barry on the fucking _floor_ , Cathy speechless for once, and this woman, this _goddess_ is grinning at him like maybe he’s finally worth something.

So what the fuck, he slides an arm around her waist, she drags him back in by the neck and fucking _yes_ , this moment is worth everything, worth bleeding for. She’s still smiling, even with her tongue in his mouth; like the two of them are sharing the world’s best joke and no one else can ever understand. Hell, Wesley isn’t sure that _he_ understands, but it doesn’t matter. He’s part of it. Everything else can go fuck itself.

Fox grabs his hand and leads him out of the apartment, and he doesn’t hear Cathy call out for him, doesn’t hear Barry make his trademark one-liner. He doesn’t hear anything but the sound of his own heartbeat and Fox’s breath, not quite a laugh, but amused all the same.

They’re two flights down when Wesley stops, tugs Fox around until her back’s against the wall, and she lets him, leaning against the brick like it was her idea.

“What the fuck was that?” he asks, but he’s smiling like he can’t stop, leaning into her like he knows she won’t stop him. She doesn’t.

“Your girl is fucking annoying,” Fox says, unconcerned. “Thought you might like hearing her shut up for a change.”

Wesley plants his hand on the brick next to her head. “She’s not my girl,” he says, and Fox laughs until his mouth on hers changes the sound to a hum, something deep and resonant and pleased.

She bites his lower lip and sucks it, hard. He can’t believe his fucking luck.

“Are you the man, Wesley?” she asks, murmured against his skin, and Wesley can’t hear her over his own lust. He grinds forward against her hip, and she gasps, repeats herself.

“What?” he says into the soft skin just behind her ear. He’s doing this, _Christ_ , she’s letting him do this.

Fox pulls back, pushes him away, his face in her hands. She’s very serious. “Are you the man?”

He licks his lips. “Fuck yeah.”

She smiles slow, leans back against the wall. “Then put the fucking gun down and show me.”

He drops it on the landing, only a second’s thought lost on _is it loaded? Fuck, did I break it?_ before he’s shoved her back against the wall, thigh pressed between her legs hard enough for her to push her hips against, and she does; and he catches the purr-like sound of pleasure she makes between his teeth, rolling it around on his tongue before swallowing it down. She’s given him permission now, and he has one hand in her jacket, thumb teasing at a nipple while his other hand works its way between their bodies, flicking the button of her pants open and pulling the zipper down.

Fox laughs. “So this is what it takes to get you to show some initiative,” she says, thoughtfully. He’s got his mouth on her collarbone, so he bites down a little too hard, retaliation.

“You complaining?” he asks, sinking to his knees on the landing. His hands are already curled in the waistband of her pants, just waiting to pull the leather down over her hips and…

“Only if you keep me waiting,” she taunts him, arches her hips towards his face. She isn’t wearing anything underneath the leather, and Wesley is not as surprised as he maybe should be. He tugs her pants down just far enough to give himself access, thick material bunching around her knees, thighs open as far as she can get them.

He wouldn’t want to disappoint her.

He brings his hands up, spreads her with his thumbs and licks right in where she’s hot and slick and so fucking sweet. It goes to his head instantly, makes him ravenous, wild; makes him want to taste her forever, feel her shiver against his tongue, involuntary. It makes his mouth water.

She says something, but he misses it, focused like he’s never been focused before, her inner thighs a soft weight against his ears. But he feels it when she digs a hand into his hair, yanks his face away, pulling just hard enough to sting; just hard enough to make him stop.

“Is this what you want?” she asks, and is she fucking _serious?_

“Are you fucking serious?” He looks up, incredulous; his mouth still wet with her and he licks his lips unconsciously. She tracks the motion, and he takes it as permission to slide his fingers up and in. From the way her breath catches, he figures she’s all right with this.

“Is this _all_ you want?” she clarifies, flexing her fingers tighter in his hair, tension with no release. The pad of his thumb rubs slow circles around her clit, not quite fast enough, not quite hard enough, as his fingers move. Tension tension tension, but he can fix that.

“I want whatever you wanna give me,” he says, tries to move his head forward and _ow_ , ow, okay, _fuck_ it hurts when she jerks him back again.

“Wrong answer,” she pants, and okay, time to step up his game. Wesley keeps his right hand where it is, keeps it moving, and grabs her wrist with his left; breaks her hold like he wants to break her arm. She cries out at _something_ , and he isn’t sure which it is, but he’s not stopping.

He stands up, presses her back against the wall again, left hand still holding her wrist in an iron grip. It gets pinned to the wall next to her head when he leans in, lips right up against her ear. “What do you want me to say, huh? You want me to say yeah, that I want nothing more than to eat you out until you scream for me?” She shivers at that, and he twists his fingers deeper, moves just that little bit faster.

“You want me to say I wanna fuck you, right here, right now; right up against this wall? Wanna wrap your legs around my waist and fill you up; make you dig your nails into my back so hard that I _bleed?_ Bend you over with your hands on the brick and fuck you from behind until you can’t hold yourself up anymore?” Her head falls back against the wall, neck a tight, graceful arch that he has to sink his teeth into. She’s getting close. _He’s_ getting close, fuck, it’s been a long time.

“Because I do, Fox. I want all of that. Fuck, I want you in ways I don’t even have _words_ for. So you tell me, Fox, you tell me what you want from me.”

She laughs a little, like he doesn’t really get it. He’s three fingers deep in her, and he feels like she’s making fun of him. He rolls his thumb right against her clit and she moans instead. Better.

“I want you to want something for yourself,” she says, breathy but still in control. “Take it. Don’t wait for people to just give it to you.”

“Okay,” he says. Starting now. “I’m not waiting. You’re going to come for me, right now, and you’re not going to keep it quiet when you do.” She tenses against him, starts to shake, makes sharp little _ah, ah, ah_ noises that echo in the stairwell. He fucks her harder with his fingers, faster with his thumb, and she’s almost there; she’s grabbing at the back of his neck, scratching him with her nails, and yeah, _god_ , it’s so good.

“And when we get back I’m gonna throw you down on my bed and make you do it again, on my cock next time, _fuck_ , Fox, come on, come on, _come on, do it…_ ”

Her hips snap against his hand and she’s almost screaming - “fuck, _Wesley!_ ” - as she shudders and clenches around his hand. He keeps it there, keeps it right where it is, lets her fuck herself on it as she comes down. It’s the hottest goddamn thing he’s ever seen.

Eventually she relaxes, leans heavy against the wall and lets her head rest against his shoulder. “How was that for quiet?” She’s still panting for breath. He’s never heard her sound so winded before.

“Pretty good, I guess” he says, carefully moving his hand away. His fingers leave sticky slick marks on her skin as he palms her naked hip. “Do better next time.”

She grins, face pressed against his neck. “Think Cathy heard that?”

Wesley says, “Fuck Cathy,” and Fox nips at his jaw.

“Thought you were going to fuck me.”

“I am,” he states. That is a _fact_. “So let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Fox tugs her leather pants back up, shimmies a little to get them fastened and Wesley is so goddamned hard he could pound nails with his dick. He bites his tongue, uses the pain to take the edge off. When he looks back at her, she’s smirking like she knows, and then she takes the stairs in twos all the way down.

He’s hurting, but it’s going to be worth it, so fucking _worth it_. He follows her out, lets her go for the car while he tries to get his hard-on under control.

Of course, that’s when everything goes to shit.

Of course it is.

\-----

He never does get to fuck her, doesn’t really even touch her after that. He hates her, maybe. Might even love her. But he respects her more than anyone he’s ever known and once she’s dead, he doesn’t waste time wishing things were different. Not even a second.

Losers look back and wonder what might have been. That’s not who he is. Not anymore.

Wesley’s used to the way the world looks through the scope, the way the rifle feels against his shoulder, in his hand. He’s waited for hours, but it’s almost done.

His old desk looks exactly the way it used to. Christ, the worthless little shit sitting there even _looks_ like him, like he was before - the button-down, the tie, the shaggy hair and sunken eyes of an insomniac; the aura of quiet desperation coming off him in waves

He couldn’t have hired a better decoy.

Sloane buys it, doesn’t even question it, even though it doesn’t make any fucking sense that Wesley would have crawled back. Not after what he’d seen, what he’d done; what he’d _become_. There is no going back, not ever, and Wesley is fucking _overjoyed_. He’s king of the fucking _world_.

His heart rate increases, adrenaline pounding through his system, but his breathing is perfectly even, and Wesley has never felt better in his life than he does when he pulls the trigger, a smooth flex of the forefinger. Calm and steady. Beautiful.

He only wishes he could see the look on Sloane’s fucking face. It has to be priceless.

Then Sloane is laid out on the floor, head in ruins, blood pooling around his twitching corpse, that fat bitch Janice is screaming, and Decoy’s got spatter on his nice white shirt, what a shame.

It’s a very pretty picture. Wesley gives himself a second to savor it, then starts packing up his gear. Sloane’s dead, the Fraternity is dead, and his job is done.

This isn’t the end of the story, though. No. This is just the beginning, and he doesn’t wonder what he’s going to do next.

The answer is: anything he fucking wants.


End file.
